


Where Was My Fault

by lapisleaves



Series: The Figure Skater [1]
Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Fate, Guns, M/M, Multi, Reincarnation, Romance, Soulmates, Unrequited Love, Violence, Wingfic, Winglock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapisleaves/pseuds/lapisleaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Figure Skater is split into six sections. In the first, "Where Was My Fault", we watch the interactions between Albus Hart, a young art professor in the 1850s, and his talented, enchanting student, Bianca Wilkes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

****3rd January, 1850-** Day 4**

He had selected well, he reflected, observing his pupils. The terrace shown with an obscene brightness, turned snow-white by the sun. Albus blinked a few times, squinting down. It had been a knot of an ordeal, choosing who would come with him to Barbados. One spot was steadfastly filled, while the other bobbed up and down in uncertainty. Eventually, he had chosen Joseph. The boy (Though he was at twenty one years, Albus could not stop thinking of him as a boy. His character was far riper than that of the other young men among his peers, but his countenance was rounded and pasty with youth) had talent that he could not ignore, lest his superiors raise their brows at his apparent ignorance. Joseph’s work was exquisite; full of sharp, precise detail, finer than the makeup of any albatross plume, with its rachis and calamus and barbs; riddled with the complexity of the architecture of Westminster Abbey. Despite his blatant potential, the boy’s passive temperance was irksome to Albus. Joseph had no ambition. Certainly, when he was focused on a project, his drive and concentration were tremendous, but he had no bars set for himself. All he did was paint, without any aspiration.

Albus had immediately learned that, if he wished, he could mold the boy however he saw fit; changing the technique of his brushstroke, dampening his shadows, sharply pronouncing highlights, mixing his colors on the canvas itself instead of the palette. The latter was the most fun for Albus to watch; under his instruction, Joseph would blend the paints with his smallest brush, moving as slowly as he dared, for that was his one form of resistance. The longer Albus watched, the worse it became for Joseph, but the moment he turned his back, the boy would move to cover whatever new instructions had been so subtly forced upon his hand. He obeyed, but ultimately reverted to his natural environment; by no means at all a chameleon. The game was a sour affair for Albus; the lemon sweetness he garnered from putting Joseph through these tetchy hoops quickly grew bitter, for Joseph’s futile, kitten attempts to defend his style’s individuality aggravated him to no end.

In the terraced gardens beneath the loggia, Albus’ two students were working. Joseph was studying an aloe vera, scrutinizing it with his brush. Earlier he trimmed a branchlet of the plant, sliced it open with a paper thin knife, and spent an hour and another teaching himself about the plant. Back at the Institute in London, he used to spend as much time in the studio as he did with the botanists, dissecting and dismembering fruits and ferns and flowers. The boy had a compulsion to peel back the layers of his subject like an onion, urged to decipher the inner workings to produce an accurate and satisfactory portrait of his muse. In this way he destroyed his subject in the process, wrecking the beautiful to wrap it up within him, the way a serial murderer may keep mementos of his victims. Albus disapproved of the whole process; the boy simply could not observe; he took the route of destruction instead, raising relics from the ruins.

Six meters from Joseph, Albus’ other student was absorbed in her task. He followed her gaze with the movement of her head; her canvas, the pathway to the cove, back to the canvas, returned to the path. Her flaxen head shone like a bead of washed white honey.

B (Bianca, he reminded himself) had been the obvious choice. He had selected her prior to pitching the trip to his seniors (He never had any doubt they would turn it down. It wasn’t as if the travel costs would be problematic; the Institute was bursting at the seams with funds) and they had agreed amicably to his proposal. Albus would select the top two most proficient students and sail with them down to the island nation of Barbados, where they would spend seven weeks immersed in their exotic new settings while receiving additional guidance and direction from their teacher.

What Albus had successfully kept from the board was that the trip was, at the essence of it all, entirely focused on Bianca. The inclusion of Joseph, all of his talent aside, was merely to satisfy the necessity of an adequate student body. Albus had watched B (Bianca, he reprimanded) continuously at the Institute; her work was elegant, classical, even enchanting. Some of the professors found her paintings so poignant that they were moved to tears. Albus had never been a sentimental being and was not affected thus, but his telescopic eye was not exclusively for spotting talent. He knew Bianca yearned for something more, outside the Institute, outside the city. She was on the brink of greatness. The promise of what she could achieve, if placed in the proper environment, simmered over her like heat on a summer’s day. Her paintings were like none he had ever seen, her working mode like nothing he had ever witnessed. For Bianca, the term “work” was wrong. Painting was her pleasure; more than pleasure, it was her outpouring to the world. She took what she saw and experienced and transmuted it into paints and oils and lacquers, embodying her encounters with life and all she held to be beautiful. She painted as she perceived, and her perceptions were glorious, though only near to honesty. She painted the heart of her muses; their truth through her eyes, though often she treated her subjects with more grace than they possessed or deserved. She had a tendency to overlook the evil, the foul, and portray only the good that she saw or wanted to see.

Albus aimed to hone her; she was on the edge of absolute observation, a practice he held above all others. He would teach her to truly see, and if the need came, to face the darkness from which she kept aloof. She still had false fancies about the world. Nineteen is a child’s age, and only her paintings revealed the youth lodged in her head.

The balmy air every so often stirred up a light breeze, causing the fringe and short sleeves of her dress to flap slightly. The fabric shone like a flock of butterflies as Albus descended down to the lower terrace, his steps slow on the coral colored marble. Bianca had adapted to the heat of the tropics independently. After spending the first day in Barbados a sweltering mess, she had told Margery, her maid, to find her some simpler, thinner dresses. She waved away the immediate protests cluttered with the terms “indecency” “society’s standards” “proper” and “men”, repeating her request until it was fulfilled. Her new frocks were still as modest as the discarded ones, but distinctly lighter and without the unnecessary amount of bulk that women’s fashion carried around. Margery had done her utmost to at least keep the crinoline, but Bianca would not have it. She had shelled herself like a seed, and was growing anew, thriving like a plant thrust into new soil.

Her dress was canary yellow today, veiled with white lace and gold thread. She did not see Albus approaching, though he noted the intenseness of her gaze. Her countenance was always incredibly focused during her work, though there was strangeness in her expression; an intrigue, a youthful wonderment, as though she pondered and tasted what she saw as she transmuted their hearts to the linen canvas.

“Ms. Wilkes.”

B started, almost striking a palm through with a bloody red knife. Her pearl earrings bounced as she swung round.

“Mr. Hart,” she said, regaining her composure quick as a wink.

She was a beauty, Bianca Wilkes. Hair the color of orange blossom honey, already turning wheat white under the south sun. The humidity made it curl, Queen Anne’s lace blooming from her neck and cupping her ears. She had binned the standard hairstyles as quickly as her contraptions of clothes, sweeping her masses of hair atop her head. The sea breezes liked to pull strands free to dance across her face like spider silk (Albus hated the sea air. The salt turned his inky curls unbearably coarse and dull). The sun was already adorning her skin with oaky gold, causing her eyes to appear with even more lapis lazuli than they held.

He would like to paint her at some point, he thought. What a fine challenge that would be; bearing Bianca Wilkes’ truth and mind and being to the world. For that is what he did; revealed the truth, without ornamentation, without bias or prejudice. The honest truth, raw and red for all to see.

“How is it progressing?” he asked, nodding imperceptibly at her canvas. She was unwrapping the walk that led down from the terrace to the private cove. It was a coarse, sandy path, overladen with drooping palms, shrubs of crotons, begonias, and allamanda, and great sprigs of orchids and hibiscuses.

“I’m not very satisfied,” she admitted, tucking one of those flyaway, silky curls behind the scallop of her ear, brushing the pearl that hung there. “There’s too much clutter. The path is a pretty thing to look at, but it’s a demanding, tricky subject. We aren’t seeing eye-to-eye.” Her mouth twitched into a frown.

“It was an ambitious project,” Albus said, eyes on the curl blowing behind B’s ear (He really must stop using that nickname on her, even though he never uttered it aloud).

“You think so?” she asked. (He quickly dipped his gaze from her hair to meet her eyes. Swift movement had always been one of his fortes).

“Certainly,” he affirmed. His eyes on hers were quite direct, and Bianca blinked, blonde lashes flickering over blue eyes like rickety blinds. She was at least a head beneath him, but Albus, who was just taller than two meters, towered over everyone he associated with. B was thus relatively tall for a woman, but she couldn’t look anything but small, standing beside Albus Hart.

“You were quite quick choosing this spot. It doesn’t surprise me that it doesn’t fit you,” he said. “Did you have another setting in mind?”

“No,” she said, lying her brush on the palette. “Nothing yet. When will we be breaking for lunch?”

“Half past noon. Time enough for you to stroll around as you want.”

He was allowed a smile, and could tell she wanted to make it bigger than it was, so he added another incentive.

“Do you want to take Margery with you?” 

“Of course not, she’d only drag me down and be a worrywart.” She clasped a hand over her mouth at her own words, looking fleetingly up at him. “I’m sorry, I never should have spoken like that.”

“Oh no, you’re quite right,” he said. “She is a dreadful old cow, isn’t she?”

Bianca’s hand covered her mouth a second time as she sought to stifle her laughter, but the giggles crept through her fingers like butterflies, spilling around her. She turned to glance at Joseph and see if he had noticed, but Albus’ words halted her.

“Pay him no mind, he’s still pouring over that aloe plant,” he said, and she was looking up at him with a whole smile this time, sunny and brilliant.

“Mr. Hart…” she began, trailing off as any words she had thought of evaporated on her tongue.

“Go along then,” he told her, nodding beyond the turn of the villa. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on Joseph, make sure he doesn’t begin pollinating with some unfortunate bit of flora.”

Another giggle.

“Take your hat though,” he advised. “Margery will have my head as well as yours if you come back with burn across your neck.”

She nodded, and plucked her hat up from the wicker sofa, somehow pinning it to her head over those mounds of curls.

“Thank you,” she said, looking up at him again as she fastened the last pin.

“Go,” he said, letting her free with a gesture of his hand and tiny quirk of the mouth.

She smiled again, that full, brilliant smile, and went, her measured walk turning into a youthful dash as the distance increased. Albus waited until B’s back had entirely disappeared before ascending the marble steps and disappearing into the villa. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Figure Skater is split into six sections. In the first, "Where Was My Fault", we watch the interactions between Albus Hart, a young art professor in the 1850s, and his talented, enchanting student, Bianca Wilkes.

**12th January, 1850-  Day 13**

Breakfast was a lackadaisical affair. The clement weather had tucked a coat of sloth around the villa and the air moved slowly. Albus spread butter on his toast with a light hand, observing Bianca clandestinely from the corner of his eye. The morning lit her face with soft, pleasing colors: peach and golden cream. The angle of her neck changed ever so slightly as she sprinkled sugar over her fruit and her eyes turned cobalt. The heliotrope of her dress made them appear even bolder, and Albus was reminded of ink wells overflowing with blue.

“I thought I might go into town today,” Margery announced, strolling around the table engaged in a seamless dance with the dishes, picking up and putting down as she went. The woman never seemed to still. She always had to be occupied with some task and there never was an end to the incessant chatter she made. She poured more water into Joseph’s glass, despite it being three-quarters full, and the boy looked up with faint surprise.

“There is a list of items I need to procure,” she went on. “Will there be any deviations from the usual layout of the day?”

There was a hint of disdain in her tone. Margery had no love of art, Albus knew, and he had no qualms with that. What bothered him was how she dismissed practicality when it came to art, and it made Albus burn to show her just how practical art could be.

“I don’t know yet,” he said, setting down the butter knife and reclining slightly. “What are we planning for the day? Have either of you found a subject yet?”

“I am going to study the orchid,” Joseph said, his round voice tinged with excitement and interest. “I came across a blood red specimen yesterday; it’s such a complex, intriguing plant. I thought I’d get to work today, taking it apart first.”

“Yes, splendid,” Albus said flatly. “Ms. Wilkes, do you have a muse yet?”

Bianca swallowed her tea and said, “No. I haven’t found my match yet. Nothing I’ve come across yet seems to fit. I thought I’d spend most of the day out- not in town,” she said pointedly. “Rather on the cove and beach, or walking the paths in the palms.”

“And you will wear your hat,” Margery reminded with force, and Albus and B exchanged a subtle look of amusement.

“I still don’t approve of your dressing demands,” she sniffed, visibly fighting to keep down a strong string of adjectives. “So you can at least keep a hat on your head.”

She hummed to herself as she kept servicing the table. Albus was grateful for her lack of talk, and the lemon in his tea twisted his mouth when she spoke up again.

“I am concerned about you being on your own,” she told Bianca (And Albus could see her swallow a retort). “There are nasty little creatures out there, crabs and other unpleasant things.”

She shuddered at the thought.

“Mr. Hart ought to accompany you.”

Bianca’s head rose rather sharply, looking immediately to Albus, who clasped his hands in his lap and said, “Certainly. I should be glad to join her; as long as I’ll not prove a distraction to you?” he added, looking at B.

“Not at all,” she responded, and he could see the star of surprise in her eyes diminishing as she worked to hide it away. “I intended on leaving after breakfast, but I can rearrange if that is a problem for you.”

“On the contrary,” Albus replied. “It is I who should be making allowances for you. Regardless, your timetable makes no difference to mine. After breakfast shall suit just fine.”

She nodded, dipping her head back down to her fruit, and Albus allowed himself a few spare seconds to look at her longer, working to decipher the on-goings within that head.

 * * *

Bianca sat in her room before the mirror, fastening a pair of cobalt earrings to her ears and tucking strands of curly hair away from her face. Margery had left as soon as she had finished orchestrating the change of Bianca's dress; she demanded that she at least wear the cornucopia of dresses that had traveled with her and Bianca had agreed to avoid igniting Margery further.

Bianca’s intolerance of women’s fashion made her ahead of her time; she could not abide the cumbersome nature of women’s clothing, especially when menswear was so much simpler. She especially detested the dratted crinoline; that had been the first to go when they reached Bermuda. While she could abide the layers and volume of fabric in London’s cooler climate, the tropical heat made it unbearable. She took less concern about her hair as well. The humidity made its curls even stronger, and made it nearly impossible to maintain the tight, pin-straight style Margery and all other women desired her to wear. Bianca took to plaiting it in a rope down her back or pinning the masses atop her head. As long as it did not get in the way of her painting, she was happy. Just as well, she had no intention of ever going into town, where London’s gentry kept their winter cottages and paraded about like peacocks. She had seen enough of them on the day of their arrival. The men all in black; the tall, slim ones like sticks of licorice, the short and fat like ripe plums. The women were reminiscent of melting cakes, the colored icing of their gowns dripping and sliding from their bodies in thick waves of sweat, a hand clutching a parasol thrust high above as if in SOS.

At least her skin took well to the sun, she though, smoothing her hands down the blue silk bodice of her dress. Her skin was golden across her shoulders where the dress draped and fell away. Joseph, whose complexion had the pallor of milk and dried bones, was not nearly as fortunate. He had earned a scalding scarlet burn their first few days and now acted carefully to keep from the sun.

Walking through the villa, Bianca felt tiny. They had been in Bermuda for almost two weeks now and she still wasn’t used to the size of the space. The grandeur was nothing like the close, intense atmosphere of the Institute. The villa had massive dining and drawing rooms, a great ocean blue ballroom, nine bathrooms, twelve bedrooms, and five different loggias. Gold leaf crusted intricate carvings of dolphins and pineapples, symbols of hospitality, and the wallpapers alone showcased a whole spectrum of colors. 

The size mystified her. The villa could clearly comfortably host a dozen people and entertain many more, yet there were only four of them there; Mr. Hart, Joseph, Margery, and herself. 

Her thoughts were quickly diverted at the sight of Albus Hart waiting for her at the bottom of the grand staircase. His shiny black top hat was already perched on his head; he seldom took it off, for it did well deterring the sun from his face. He was fair skinned like Joseph, though in his case, the marble tone suited him. Bianca was always slightly surprised when she looked at him and saw that his eyes were a rich golden brown; she always expected them to be blue. 

“Good morning,” he said, as though it was the first time he had seen her that day. 

“Good morning,” she replied, descending the last few steps to join him. 

“Shall we?” he said, and they walked out to the lower loggia and out of the villa. 

Joseph was working in a dark area of the garden, meticulously cleaning dirt from the roots of an orchid laid out on a table. His jacket lay discarded on a chair, and an oval of sweat stained the back of his vest, two smaller circles spreading from under his arms. He seemed not to notice as Bianca and Mr. Hart walked past him, so engrossed was he in his work. 

It felt strange walking with her teacher, Bianca thought, as they left the garden and started down one of the paths, the world on either side blocked out by tall croton plants and plumeria. She almost felt as though she weren’t free to think about anything personal, as if Mr. Hart would somehow soak it up. Speaking at least seemed a better alternative to silence. 

“Mr. Hart,” she said, lacing her hands before her. “I don’t mean to seem as though I’m complaining, but I was wondering why Margery is the only help we have here. The villa is enormous- lovely, but enormous. It seems terribly understaffed for its size.” 

“Do you feel comfortable?” he asked, looking at her, and Bianca thought she caught genuine concern in his words. 

“Yes, certainly,” she affirmed. 

He looked away, apparently sated, before saying, “The villa is understaffed because I wanted it so. Margery is the only help because I wanted it so.” 

“You have that amount of control here?” 

“Absolutely. The villa is mine, after all.” 

“Yours?” Bianca fought to remain composed. “I had no idea…why do you not live here then?” 

He glanced at Bianca, the tiniest shadow of a smirk on his lips.           

"Don’t you prefer dreary, grey London to this sweltering mess of heat?” 

Bianca felt a giggle rising in her. 

"There is nicer weather in the country than in London,” she told him. “I grew up there; I know. But yes, I do prefer England over this place.”

“I thought so. As for me, I enjoy the bustle of the city. The chill days, the intricacy. It’s like an ant hill; everyone hurrying about on their own business, crisscrossing and retracing steps throughout their days.” 

“And Margery?” 

“You mean, of all people, why choose Margery?” 

“Mr. Hart,” she exclaimed, and the giggles trickled up again like a fountain. Mr. Hart smiled quietly.        

“I couldn’t have gotten rid of Margery if I tried. She’s known me since I was born, not that it’s done either of us any good. She is a package deal with any piece of my property, whether it is the villa or my estate in London.”

They were walking in a more comfortable quiet, at ease with one another, when Bianca said, “May I ask you another question?” 

“Certainly.” 

"I was wondering why you were named such,” she said. “Not your surname, of course; your first name.”           

“You are full of surprises, Ms. Wilkes,” Mr. Hart replied. “Not many people recognize the irony and of those that do, seldom do they comment.” 

“I am not a daft woman, Mr. Hart,” Bianca responded, slightly irritated. “Nor did I mean to appear rude.” 

“And I had to intention of implying you were either,” he replied gracefully. “Go on.”           

“You’ve made it clear you already know what I was going to say.”  

“Nevertheless, we might as well hear it.” 

She stopped walking suddenly, and he matched her, appearing almost slightly amused as she looked at him studiously from under the brim of her hat. His emotions were hardly ever completely apparent, she realized, and never blatant. He was always just slightly this, a bit that; it was as though the ivory curtains of his face were betrayed by a slim opening, and Bianca caught glimpses of how the emotions truly gripped him. He had surprised her on a few occasions so far, making her laugh with a sudden deviation from his usual proper profile. His amusement was nearing on apparent now, and there was- was that almost a twinkle in the back of his brown eyes? A tiny footprint of fondness? Bianca dismissed it. Sometimes she wasn’t sure what she saw through the curtains. 

“Albus means “white”, some even say “fair-haired”,” she said. “Yet you aren’t at all fair-haired. On the contrary, your hair is so dark it’s almost black.” 

She was looking at him closely, and any meticulous study was gone from her face. Her eyes passed over every plane and angle of his face; his jaw, his cheek, the straight slope of his nose. His skin was dappled with exotic patterns of shadows cast down from the leaves overhead; they made it look as though the curls of his hair had grown longer, swirling further around his face in streams of darkness. Even the lashes around his golden eyes were inky black, as if they were made by strokes of her finest sable brush. Her eyes widened as she realized the intensity of her own observation, and she immediately dipped her head, embarrassed. 

“I apologize,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to be impertinent.” 

“Never apologize, Ms. Wilkes,” he told her, and she was certain this time that there was tenderness in his words.           

“You are an artist. You see with an artist’s eyes. Don’t ever apologize for what you see, or how you see it; that’s what makes you unique.” 

Bianca looked up at him again, mystified. No one had ever spoken to her in such a way, and she still couldn’t tell how _he_ felt. His words, his tone, the expression in his eyes. Whenever she thought she had some grasp on his emotions, it twisted and disappeared. There seemed to be softness in his face and kindness in his words, but he held so much within him, and she couldn’t help but be drawn again to those strange shadows cast over his face. How little she knew about him, really. 

"Your name happens to have a near meaning to my own,” he told her. “Bianca: Italian for “white”. Appropriately given as well; your hair is quite fair.” 

For some unknown reason, Bianca almost blushed. There was more than observation in his words, but could she ever be certain of any singular meaning in anything Mr. Hart said?

"So, Bianca,” he said, and this time he offered her his arm.

“Shall we?”


	3. Chapter 3

**12 th January, 1850-  Day 13**

"Why do you paint, Ms. Wilkes?" Albus asked. 

The sun was beating down more fiercely on the couple as they walked through the thinning palms toward the cove, B's arm looped through his own. Their steps were small and slow; Albus had adjusted his pace to match that of his companion. 

"I suppose it's a matter of self-expression," she replied after a spell. "I like to paint things I love, to portray them in all their natural beauty so that I might share them with other people." 

"However, you have a tendency to enhance your subjects," Albus pointed out. "You give them more grace and beauty than they possess. Does that not deviate from your "natural" portrayal?" 

"I aim to portray the natural good in my subjects, the grace they inherently possess," B explained. "Beauty is so often polluted by the world and everything thrust upon it. My paintings are the hearts of my subjects as they inherently are; good and pure."  

"You speak like Rousseau," Albus said contemplatively. "Do you believe we are all born innocent, abundant with goodness?" 

"No," she said, and he saw that she was smiling. Intelligent conversation was fuel for Bianca; she ate it up. 

"Not entirely, at least. I prefer John Locke's philosophy." 

“ _Tabula Rasa_ ,” Albus murmured. 

"The blank slate. It seems too rigid a theory for all people to be born inherently innocent or sinful," B said. "I think we are what we are willing to believe." 

They had reached the private cove and the soft earth beneath their feet had changed to the flour-white sand of the beach. The sea was quiet, sucking with a meditative rhythm on the shore. Albus knew that despite her dislike of the heat, B loved Bermuda's water. The sea around Great Britain was always iron gray and desolate, the Thames never an attractive sight unless covered in snow and ice. Albus saw her love for the crystal tropical waters reflected in her eyes. He had a small boat here; he would have to take her out in it at some point. She would like that. 

"Why do you paint?" B asked him, interrupting his train of thought. 

"Oh, expression, very much the same as you." 

"But not the same." 

"And why do you say that?" 

"I've seen some of your paintings- they're quite wonderful," she added hastily, as though worried she had to assure him of her praise. 

"Do you always paint portraits?" 

"Yes," he told her. "Though they're not all stiff and normal." 

"I don't paint people often," she said, musing aloud and drifting into a thoughtful silence. 

"You were saying?" he prompted. 

"Oh, yes!" and her arm tightened in his as her attention jolted back. 

"You don't express any of yourself in your paintings. When I paint, I paint the goodness that I perceive, and sometimes I enhance it, as you say. They are my perceptions entirely. But when you paint, your paintings _are_ the people, not perceptions. It's as if you see inside them and paint them at their rawest, most open state. You paint them as they truly are; the accuracy is almost frightening." 

She was looking at him with concern, blue eyes large as she searched for the effect her words had on him. Albus was quiet for a while after, and the silence between them was tense with B's anticipation. 

"You are quite something, Ms. Wilkes," he said finally. 

And she was. An enchanting young artist, a young woman who spoke freely of matters of philosophy while most girls her age had never even heard of Locke or Rousseau. A woman ahead of her time, who demanded to dress according to her comfort, regardless of what society dictated. When she spoke, her words were infused with life, and when she fell silent, her thoughts permeated the very air around her. 

As they continued walking, the quiet was once again different. The rushing sound of the ocean, tinkling with shells and sand; the salty air whooshing through the long shiny palm leaves, slapping them together like sheets of leather and canvas; all seemed accentuated as they filled the slim space between the two of them. Their feet, slowed by the sand, felt like pendulums, being sucked back before moving forward. Albus could feel a sill of sweat on his brow where his hat crushed his coal black curls to his head. He could see the smooth swell of B's shoulder from the corner of his eye without having to turn his head. Her skin was gold and glistening in the sun, the blue silk of her dress damp at her back between her shoulder blades. His shirt collar felt tight around his neck. How he would like to paint her; all blue silk and named fair curls and sunbaked skin and thought.

 

* * *

**14 th January, 1850-  Day 15**

Tropical storms could rise from oblivion to strike the land, and the tempest that reigned over the villa that day was thunderous. Bianca was curled up in a chair like a brooding cat. Joseph had taken his orchid inside to continue his studies, but B still had no subject. Her golden dress ballooned around her like the cap of a mushroom, her small feet invisible, tucked beneath the fabric on the cushions. Albus knew Margery would berate her for sitting in such a way, but she was preparing tea and he knew B felt comfortable enough in his company to abandon some degrees of properness. 

The sitting room was full of dark light, the shadows from the storm flying over the walls like a flock of butterflies from some menagerie of night. The lamplight cast blushes of orange and copper across the nearer surfaces, illuminating the coral tones of the wallpaper. B’s chair was near one such lamp, and the light washed over her skin, turning her into a golden idol. Her hair was twisted into a thick braid, but the humidity had turned her hair into corkscrews. The weather was being equally devilish to Albus’ hair, and he felt as though the volume had doubled. 

B’s expression was an amalgamation. Albus could see her youthful petulance at being kept inside, her irritation at not having a subject to devote her time to. There was a wistfulness to her face as well, a longing she was fighting to restrain. 

Albus set his book aside. 

“Talk to me,” he said. 

Her eyes wandered to his, dark in the dim room. 

“You obviously have something on your mind,” he said. “What is it about the storm that makes you yearn like you are?” 

“Do you really want to know?” she asked, and her voice was low and husky. 

Albus’ eyes gleamed. 

“Enlighten me.” 

Bianca shifted in the chair, her dress bunching as she adjusted herself. 

“I told you yesterday that I lived in the country when I was young,” she began. “When I was a little girl, my parents were very lax with me. I could do as I pleased with very few exceptions. Whenever there was a thunderstorm, they could never contain me inside. I would run out at the first clap if I could and sit in the grass while I waited for the rain to fall.” 

A wild star kindled in her eyes as she spoke, and Albus could see that she was far away. 

“I would dance in the rain, beneath the belly of the storm, and the wind would whip my dress and hair around me like sheets and ribbons. There is something magnificent about a thunderstorm, Mr. Hart. The elements compose an orchestra which produces a palette of such sounds and images that the very air seems to combust. It is a force of nature like no other.”

There was a bittersweet quality clinging to her words as she reminisced and Albus saw where her longing came from. She had turned from a cat to a tiger, and Albus watched the penned animal pacing restlessly to and fro in the prison of her body. Her eyes held an edge he had not seen before, the wild star burning like a stick of lightning.  

“Then go,” he said. 

She turned her head towards him. 

“I beg your pardon?” she said, and he knew she had heard him perfectly. 

“Go,” he repeated, as lightning flew over the walls like a wave of ivory blood.           

“Go out in the storm. Dance like you used to.” 

“Are you completely mad?” Bianca said, voice sticky with incredulity. 

“I do not see a problem-” 

“Do you think I am completely improper?” 

Albus raised a brow, looking pointedly at her casual posture. B’s face flushed heatedly as she recognized the direction of her gaze and she bristled as she rearranged herself, planting her bare feet on the floor. 

“I am not some wild child,” she began hotly, before Albus cut her off. 

“No. That’s where you are wrong, Ms. Wilkes. Please realize, I did not mean to insult you. You display an ample amount of etiquette. But, you are a wild child, as you so put. You are cultured and polite, as well as stately, and very modest, but you are wild. However, the properness you know and display is not a façade; it is all very genuine, a single facet on the diamond of your face. Your wildness is but another. Tell me, how many years has it been since your last thunderstorm?" 

“Seven,” she said, a clap of thunder solidifying the word. 

“I was twelve.” 

“And you’ve missed terribly it ever since,” Albus said. “How horrible it must have been for you once you moved to London, shut up inside with not a field to frolic in, even if you _could_ find a way to escape. But here, amid all this roiling nature, it’s no wonder you are so starving.” 

The longing was no longer hiding on B’s face. It stood out like paint and blood and fresh snow, and the hungry, keening fire in her eyes was blazing. 

“Go,” Albus said, and she was released. 

B walked over to the doors and flung them open. A gust of cool wet wind blew her dress back and her braid from her shoulder, and a slick palm leaf skidded slightly over the threshold, sticking to the marble of the loggia. Albus watched her as she stepped out into the storm, her movements slow and hypnotized. He grabbed his hat and followed her as far as the doorway, where he leaned against the doorframe, observing her. Her dress was turning the dark color of mustard as the rain struck it in fat drops, the fabric soaking the water up the way bread soaks up gravy. She was still, standing turned toward the sea. The ocean was pitted as a sieve, the whitecaps frothy and many and the only distinguishing feature between the sea and the sky, both the same iron grey as familiar waters of England. The palms were flinging their great crowns about as though they were animated by some primitive god. Their writhing forms and all the other facets of the landscape were thrown into a split portrait of black and white as silver lightening flashed. Albus could see the tall plumes, like the stalks of bizarre flowers, glittering as they struck out at sea. 

Bianca turned her head to face him. What a sight she was; dress billowing out like a sail, yellow hair spilling from her braid in long, darkening curls, grey rain splashing on the loggia. She had not allowed the bright excitement in her eyes to spread to the rest of her face; she was brimming with hope, but braced for disappointment if she was to be called back. It was as though she was trying not to relish what she was feeling out of fear that it would be snatched away, and that this would be the only ounce she would experience. Her eyes spoke to him on a level that speech dare not trespass on, teeming with emotion and anticipation. Albus nodded and he watched as the emotion spread over B’s face like sunlight; the part in her lips, the crinkle and ascension of her eyes, the way her cheeks became round as crabapples. She opened her hands, raising her arms and opening herself to the roiling day, blinking as the water struck her face. Her laughter was tumultuous. 

Albus closed the loggia doors, retreating to stand at the window, watching as B spun and soaked in the gale. She had run down the coral colored steps, bare feet slapping the slick marble, and was moving about the terraced gardens, looking up at the sky and issuing silent laughter that Albus could not hear through the glass. Another clap of thunder resonated over the villa, the sonorous sound trembling over every artifact. 

“Where is Ms. Wilkes?” 

Albus did not turn round. He could smell the tea tray from where Margery held it; the waves were pungent and fruity in the humid room. 

“Outside,” he told her. 

“Outside! In this sort of weather!” Margery exclaimed. 

Albus heard her set down the tray and rush to the window in a rustle of skirts. He spared her a glance as she looked out the glass beside him, down at where B was dancing and twirling in circles, her hair sticking to her shoulders in wet ropes. Even from a height, her glee was evident. 

“I will never be able to fathom the inner-workings of your head, Mr. Hart,” Margery said. “You, who I have known from the day you were born.” 

“My head does not belong to the one embracing a thunderstorm,” Albus pointed out. 

“No, and I don’t know what you were thinking letting her out there.” 

Lightning flashed across their faces as they watched the third and Albus was silent. 

“Be careful with that child,” she told him, almost in warning. “She is a strange thing, but no more a toy to play with than poor Joseph Mortar. I’m not blind; I see what you do to him. He falls when you push him, and she only bends; that fascinates you. But if you break her- and if you do not take caution, you will- there will be consequences.” 

When Albus’ silence lengthened, Margery continued. 

“I have seen you play this game before, Mr. Hart. It does not end will for either party. I know you have not forgotten the Ander girl at least. If you keep pushing, the result may be a second Pyrrhic victory, and it will rest on my shoulders to pick you up again.” 

“What I do is no concern of yours,” Albus told her quietly, eyes still fixated on the figure in the rain. 

“Your actions always concern me,” Margery replied shortly. “I do not know your full intent, but I don’t need too. The state of things is clear enough.” 

She was following his gaze, but the sadness in her own eyes did not seep into her voice. 

“You will injure yourself with this one, just like you did with Isabella Ander, and though you will try- you always try- you will not be able to ignore the hurt.”


	4. Chapter 4

**14 th January, 1850-  Day 15**

            The storm was still raging when B started climbing the steps to the loggia, hands fisted in her wet dress. Albus left the window and opened the loggia doors as she reached the top, stepping out into the rain to help her. She was shivering softly as he wrapped an arm around her wet shoulders, leading her in.

            “I got cold,” she said redundantly, holding the sodden skirts above her bare white feet.

            “The rug,” she protested faintly as they walked over it, water dripping from her dress.

            “Don’t concern yourself with it,” he told her, putting his free hand over hers and holding her closer to the heat of his body. She was trembling now, chills fluttering over her body, and her hand felt as though it buzzed with lightning within his grasp.

            Margery rushed past them to shut the loggia doors.

            “A hot bath,” she said firmly. “That’s just what she needs.”

            “Nonsense,” Albus said. “Ms. Wilkes has been practically underwater for the past hour; I’m sure a bath would be the least helpful thing. Give her a change of clothes and a cup of tea; she’ll be right as rain in no time.”

            B’s smile permeated the room, and Albus felt her hand grow warmer.

 

* * *

 

            The thunderstorm tapered off during dinner, the wind around the villa quieting until the air was warm and still. The loggias and gardens were glistening like jewels while the wet palms leaned luxuriously to and fro as though being stirred through vats of molasses. Albus was deep inside his book when B rushed into the room, calling for him. The wine colored silk of her gown winked in the candlelight, her curls a fresh golden cascade down her back. Her face itself was a sheer beacon of light.

            “Ms. Wilkes?” he said, putting his book aside.

            “I know what I’m going to paint,” she told him, the glee in her voice positively thrumming.

            For a splinter of a moment, Albus thought she might take him by the hand, but instead she turned, her skirts rushing like birdwings, and lead him to the great ballroom, where the setting sun was visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The light dribbled across the tiled floor like a spill of honey, illuminating the blue walls and casting a glow across the entire bare expanse of B’s skin; from her breasts and shoulders up to her neck and face, she was golden. How he would love to paint her; all of that gold skin, her hair shining like coils of unwrapped coins, eyes turned to discs of sapphire in the light of the sun, the same light which collected in the folds of her gown and dripped down the wine colored fabric like a fountain. She was a masterpiece, Bianca Wilkes.

            She was staring at the sun out at sea, and she need not tell him that this scape is what she would paint; she knew that he knew in the silent way that artists communicate. The sun was a fiery red globe, sitting just above the horizon like an egg that was on the brink of hatching. There was that same anticipation as B watched it make its slow progress down the sky. Albus felt as though time had stilled to half its pace as he watched her.

            The sea was as smooth as a sheet, the sky as clear as the china plates they had eaten off of not so long ago. The rosy glow of the sun turned the salt water pomegranate red, and it looked as though the sky surrounding it was flushing, such was the color. The red flush became golden as the distance from the sun increased, eventually transforming to either the dark, ink blue of the sea or the starry violet of night.

            Neither of them spoke until the sun had vanished entirely beneath the end of the ocean, leaving the earth a little cooler.

            “How will you do it?” Albus asked her.

            “I suppose I will watch,” B said, staring at the last spot she had seen the brilliant orb.

            “Every evening, if I can. I’ll watch, and I will write down my observations. Then, when I feel prepared, I will begin to paint.”   

            “You will do it,” Albus affirmed.

            “You think I can?” she asked, and her blue eyes caught his golden ones as she looked up at him.

            “Yes,” he said simply. “I do. And you will be radiant.”

            There was some energy between them that followed his words, licking and stirring their skin like spices and the sharpness of cilantro. B’s lips were parted, the space just spare enough for a slip of paper to slide between them. Half of her face was cast in shadow and the darkness made her seem all the younger, as though pronouncing the innocence of this naïve, beautiful flower of a creature. To an outsider, they looked like two magnets, caught and frozen in time just before they linked. The tension was palpable. The skin on Albus’ palm itched but he dare not move to scratch it, as it was taking all of his focus to look at B’s eyes and not at the tender, dark part in her mouth. B inhaled suddenly, a sweet swell of breath, and Albus felt the tension dissipate a degree.

            “Good night, Ms. Wilkes,” he said, and the words felt like velvet on his tongue. He watched the soft pink curves of letters form in B’s mouth, only to burst and melt on her tongue like mints and squares of tissue paper. It was as though her mouth and mind were playing tricks with her and she could not say what she desired to.

            “Good night, Mr. Hart,” she replied in kind, and he watched lilies and roses open through her lips. Then she turned and walked from the darkening ballroom, wine colored gown holding her like a goblet holds some precious liquid. The ballroom felt underwater in the dark, and Albus was a god, secreting power in trembling waves and aware of every temptation before him.

 

* * *

**17 th January, 1850-  Day 18**

 

            Bianca’s nights were disturbed by her own mind after that evening in the ballroom. Her dreams were confusing menageries and she became lost in her own head. Each night was full of images and faces she had never seen, scents she had never smelled, music she had never heard, and yet all of it felt so eerily familiar, like the dark shadow of a hand against a glass door. Always, there was the sense of tension; it lingered no matter how the visions morphed and changed. It was like when she was trying to paint the clearest, finest line, and every ounce of concentration settled around her and she was so wrapped in the moment that she forgot even to swallow or breathe. That same tension, that anticipation of perfection, was present in every moment of her dreams.

            She saw (No, she _felt_ ) a piano, its strings taunt as the canvases she worked on. The keys were like the finest sticks of marble, black and white like the zebras in a painting she had seen long ago. She glimpsed faces with the piano, the ghosts of boys who wore strange clothing, though she saw them as one looks at a reflection in a foggy mirror; hazy and incomplete. Only fragments were clear, and those fragments were as clear as crystal; hands overlapping on piano keys, the flash of grey eyes (And she felt as though she _knew_ those eyes).

            Then the dream changed and strange music infused her mind, music full of alien horns and instruments she could not describe. It was a husky, roiling sound, low and full of undulations new to her ear. The piano, different from that of the ghostly boys’, was smooth and sultry; the horns called and jeered in long, brassy whines.

            The room was dimly lit and smoky with a dark haze; so little seemed real. She felt the presence of others, but she could not decipher their shadowy figures. _There_. Bianca felt a pull, an itching that crept over her skin and turned her towards a long dark countertop and the man that stood behind it. Their eyes locked, and Bianca felt absolutely that she _knew_ him.

She awoke with a stabbing pain in her left hand, as though it had been cut open with a knife, and she half expected to see blood spilling from broken skin, but her palm was smooth and unmarked.  Bianca ran fingers over her palm, reassuring herself as the imagined pain receded with her alarm. The pain had felt so real, she thought, shuddering as she lay back on the pillows, tucking her hand against her breasts. Sleep took her back as quickly as it had left.

             When she woke for the second time, moonlight was trickling across the folds of her bed. Bianca lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. The bedclothes were sticking to her uncomfortably, like flypaper. She kicked the sheets off with fumbling movements and sat up. A walk would do her good, she thought. She was craving the feel of the sea air on her skin.

            The night was warm and languid. Bianca felt as though she was wrapped in the darkest of satins as she stood on the highest loggia, looking out at the nocturnal sea. The ocean was still, and the familiar breeze that swept her days had retired for the night. The stars were out, shining like silver needles and pearls and grains of sand. They swept across the heavens like fields of wildflowers. They reminded her of chrysanthemums and asters and lotuses, the beautiful star-shaped flowers that she loved. Their sheer quantity astonished her; she had never seen so many stars. The moon hung among them in the utterly cloudless night, the greatest light of them all.

            “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

            Albus Hart was standing behind her in a blue silk dressing gown, looking up at the sky.

            “Yes,” Bianca murmured. “It is.”

            “You don’t seem surprised that I’m out here,” Mr. Hart remarked, moving softly to stand beside her.

            “I’m not,” she replied, and she wasn’t. She felt completely at peace, and the presence of her teacher did not disturb or puzzle her.

            She turned her head to look at him, and in one soft moment full of golden eyes and starry blue light on pale skin, Albus Hart bent his head and kissed her.

            Bianca felt her heart rising up into her mouth and she felt as though she might burst into a thousand pieces. She leaned up into the kiss, and felt Albus’ hands cupping either side of her face and never had she felt so loved in all of her life. His touch made her feel like something precious, something desirable, and as her small arms slid around his waist, his lips tightened on hers and Bianca felt certain that there was no way she could contain this feeling.

            Bianca woke with a soft gasp, her eyes blown as she looked up at the ceiling. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of notions, and she fought to gain some order as her heart continued to pound in her chest. There was absolutely no way she could love Albus Hart. He was her superior, her elder by twelve years, her teacher. She could not fall in love with Albus Hart. And yet the dream- The dream was merely that, she told herself with as much force as she could muster. A dream.

            She curled onto her side, limbs tucked inwards so that she held herself. She could not love Albus Hart. She knew that. But sometimes she was not so certain; was it all in her head? Was any of it real? The way he looked at her sometimes, the way he spoke to her, and especially that evening in the ballroom. Could she ever be certain of Mr. Hart’s nature? He surprised her sometimes with his spontaneous bursts of improperness; she never knew what to expect from him. He was a strange, mysterious man, she thought. A terrible, enchanting man.

 

* * *

 

**18 th January, 1850-  Day 19**

            The night was wine colored. Margery had set a small table and chair in the ocean blue ballroom and that is where Bianca had sat for the past three nights, looking out of the great windows as though she was searching for her soul amongst the depths of the ocean. Albus watched her from the balcony, leaning over the banister and the pods of carved dolphins that leapt from the wood. She looked dainty from the height; her green dress billowed around her like a plant, her mounds of hair swept up onto her crown. She was reminiscent of a dandelion. Her neck, that tender stalk, supporting that soft golden head. Her eyes, if she craned around and looked at him, would appear like brilliant blue beetles.  Albus watched the whiteness of her neck with a scrutinizing look. Her skin was bare from where the spider-silk threads of her hair ended, to the mere beginnings of her shoulder blades, across the top of her back and sweeping over her creamy shoulders. She was dark and golden where the shadows touched her, satin embossed with honey and liquid light. How he would like to paint her, he thought, and his collar grew hot at the thought.

            B was writing slowly, her movements so little that she appeared completely still. Albus wondered what she was putting on that paper, what words were the product of such a transmutation. The wine colored light was spilling into the ballroom like thick blood, staining the room a darker, foreboding color that cascaded down the wallpaper. Out at sea, the sun was a fiery orange ball, sinking lower as the darkness grew, gorging itself on the ballroom and the young woman sitting before its jaws.

            He could push her.

            “Good evening, Ms. Wilkes,” he said, voice dropping down from the balcony.

            She swiveled in her seat, and even from his height, Albus could see that the words she had written were few. B’s face was almost blank, as though her slate had been wiped as soon as he had spoken.

            “Any progress?” he asked her, keeping his smile entirely internal and unnoticeable.  

            The fact that B lingered before she spoke told Albus all he needed to know.

            “Some,” she said, and the word felt as forced as the hardest lie.

            Bianca Wilkes would make no progress. Not in the state of mind that had wrapped its claws around her like a winged predator.


End file.
